


the moths don't die for nothing

by majesdane



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They all leave. Eventually.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the moths don't die for nothing

i will wait for you here because this is the last place i saw you.  
\-- _pleasefindthis_

 

 

They take her back the Dollhouse, because that is the only place left for her.

Bodies litter the floor and she can't help but wonder why no one cleaned it up, just as she steps in a puddle of blood. It's ridiculous to be thinking of things like this, but her shoe is covered in blood now and she doesn't know if she can get it clean. She scrubs it in the bathroom, turns the water pink and brown, until her hands are raw. It doesn't wash out completely; the stain is still there.

She's Claire again, but she's not the _same_ Claire. All of Rossum's leaps and bounds in improving the imprinting technology have made them sloppy. She already knew that Claire -- herself, really -- wasn't real. But now she knows about the other parts of her that are no longer real as well: a lover. A serial killer. A mad scientist. And Whiskey. The girl she was before Whiskey. Claire doesn't know who she was, before Whiskey. Even now, after all that's happened, she can't bear to find out. Seeing it would make it real somehow; for now she can keep on pretending that Claire is who she really is. As if she deserves to be alive, as if she deserves to be in this _body_.

November is missing.

When she asks Adelle about November -- Madeline, she remembers -- Adelle's eyes grow dark and her lips set in a hard, thin line. All she says (quietly, away from everyone else) is that Madeline will not be coming back. The implication is more than enough. She doesn't tell Claire how or why and Claire thinks maybe it's best that way. It's best sometimes to not have to know everything. A relief, almost.

(She cries, two weeks later, when the reality of it all has set in. She remembers Madeline from before. Before Alpha. Before Caroline or Echo or whoever she is now. Before, when things were simpler. When she was her best. When Madeline was alive. She considers asking Topher to wipe her again; it shouldn't have to hurt like this.)

 

;;

 

she remembers bandaging november's wounds, after what happened with hearn. there was the way that november flinched at the sting of antiseptic, how claire's mouth moved to whisper soft, gentle words. it's okay. you were your best. i can help you. it's okay.

she remembers madeline leaving. remembers how another person took her place in the sleeping pod that night. she sat up all night, monitoring the room. there was something missing; she could feel it. she drank until she fell asleep, curled up on the couch in the back of her office. it wasn't fair. it wasn't. she hated madeline and pitied her at the same time. she hated her for being free. she pitied her for the same reason. the only real freedom in this world came from being a doll, blissfully unaware and unafraid.

 

;;

 

They all leave. Eventually. One by one, until no one else is left.

Adelle and Topher are the last two to go. Claire sits with them in her office, saying nothing. Adelle's brought down some bourbon from upstairs and they sit around drinking it in chipped coffee mugs. He used me, Claire says, because feeling sorry for herself is all she's got.

He used us all, Adelle says. Her eyes have dark circles under them. Her hair is unkempt. Her clothes fall loosely around her body and Claire knows she's gotten too thin. They all have, in this past month. She is a far cry from the Adelle that Claire used to know. She's not the Adelle that Whiskey knew either.

(She is still strong. But not in the same way.)

It will be okay, Topher mumbles, mostly to himself. It will be okay. I invented this, I can fix this. I can fix this. I can --

Claire can't listen any more; her head hurts. Her arms feel heavy and tired and she doesn't know if she'd be able to move them if she tried to. She downs the rest of her drink, feels it settle and burn low in her stomach, wonders how close she is to being drunk. Wonders if this is what everything in her life has led up to; drinking while the world ends. It seems oddly poetic; she feels her mouth twist into a tight smile.

(The world has already ended.)

 

;;

 

there's november after, but there's also november _before_. before, when november's hand slips into hers as they came back from an engagement together. her hand is soft; her eyes sparkle. before, when they sit next to each other in art class and paint pictures with colors that are so bright that they hurt claire's eyes just to think about now. before, when everything's nice and easy. before, when everything is going to be okay.

before.

 

;;

 

She can feel herself slipping away.

Maybe it's the lack of human interactions, but her imprint is starting to wear off, becoming frayed at the edges. She can feel it, almost, thinks of herself as a rock, being worn down by rain and wind and sun until it's not a rock any longer. Until it's just _rocks_. Plural. Until even those wear down and she becomes sand. Infinitesimal. That is all she is now; many things and nothing at once. So many things shoved into one body, one brain, to make one person.

But the cracks are growing bigger with each day. One day she realizes that she can't remember all the bones in the human body. Three days later she realizes that her hands have developed a slight shake to them -- they're no longer precise and steady like before. Two weeks later, when she tries to remember her times at medical school -- false memories, but memories nonetheless -- she finds that her mind is blank on that subject. And so it goes, day after day, until she knows that she will no longer be Claire at all. Just a blank slate. Tabula rasa.

She's terrified and relieved at the same time. She doesn't know what will come next, but she thinks that maybe it doesn't matter. She won't know _next_ , she'll always just know _now_ , forever and ever until the end of time. In a Doll's world, there is no time at all. There is no after and no before.

Caroline (or Echo or whoever she is, some terrible combination of them both) told her that she'd lose her mind if she stayed in the Dollhouse. Maybe it's for the best. She's not Claire; she never was. She was never anyone but Whiskey and the girl who came before Whiskey, whose name she will never know.

On the walls of her office, she writes her name, again and again in black permanent marker. _Claire Saunders. Claire Saunders. Claire Saunders._ It's a lie, of course, but a lie no one now will ever know the truth of. Going through her files one day, because there's nothing else to do but sit and remember, she finds the one belonging to Madeline. _Madeline Costley_ it says, on the inside, next to a picture of her smiling. Under that it says _Active Name: November_. The signature on her contract is dated October 2nd, 2006.

She doesn't know why, but something in her closes up then. The walls feel like they're pressing in on her, pushing all the air out of the room. Her lungs feel tight, like she can't breathe. It _hurts_. She closes her eyes and clutches Madeline's (November's) file to her chest until the feeling passes, hours (though they could be minutes, she has no sense of time anymore) later.

 

;;

 

dr. saunders offers her a lollipop and she takes two. she knows that november hasn't been to see dr. saunders in a while. not like her. she's always there. dr. saunders is nice. she finds november sitting on the long couch in the middle of the floor, reading a book with large, pretty pictures. i like to look at them, november says, looking up at whiskey and smiling.

whiskey holds out a cherry lollipop to her. you like these, she says.

yes, november says, taking it. her smile is even brighter now. bigger. whiskey sits down next to her on the couch, tucking her legs up under her. i want to look at the pictures with you, she says.

okay. november moves the book so that it's on both their laps. she turns the pages cautiously, slowly, to make sure that whiskey has enough time to look at them. she thinks the pictures tell a story, but she can't be sure. there's a girl and roses and a castle. and thorns. whiskey doesn't think this is a very nice story. it's sad.

her shoulder hurts; it distracts her. ow, she murmurs, touching it.

november looks concerned. you're hurt.

dr. saunders made me better, whiskey tells her. november nods understandingly. sometimes being your best means getting hurt. november reaches over and rests her hand on top of whiskey's. whiskey can feel her skin tingling at the touch. november is nice. pretty. her friend. whiskey likes her a lot.

she says as much.

i like you too, november says, and then, resting her head on whiskey's shoulder, goes back to reading the book.


End file.
